


set yourself on fire

by revolutionnaire



Series: nothing left to burn [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-30
Updated: 2008-01-30
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionnaire/pseuds/revolutionnaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is their first season together.</p>
<p>(Set during the 2007 season.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	set yourself on fire

The first thing that Felipe learnt about Kimi Raikkonen was this: there were only three things in the world that Kimi cared about-- his wife, racing, and his dog. And not necessarily in that order.  
  
(Or so Felipe had hoped.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On the airplane, through the small gap between the seats, he studies the man who is to be his new team mate. Kimi sits three rows in front of him, white earphones in his ears and a tattered book in his hands. Felipe studies him, studies the shock of pale blonde hair, the equally pale skin, and the ruddy cheeks he knows are there but can't see from here. He looks at the set of Kimi's shoulders, the way his shirt stretches across his back, catches the slow twine of ink around his wrist. (Months later, Felipe will joke about it. In America, in the scorching heat of Indianapolis and in front of over two hundred people, Felipe will tell the world that Kimi's tattoo was his work of art, that he did it, not some random tattoo artist.   
  
It's not true, but by the end of the season, he'll wish that it was.)  
  
Now, Felipe doesn't care much for reading, but he gets up anyway, makes his way carefully through the aisle, gripping the backs of airplane seats and sits next to Kimi.  
  
"Hey," he says, smiling as friendly as he can. "What are you reading?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
If Kimi had told him that he'd joined Ferrari solely for their ski resort tucked away in the Italian mountains, Felipe would probably have believed him.  
  
It's the most comfortable he's seen Kimi, to be honest. Snowboard tucked under one arm and hair plastered to his scalp by his ski cap, Felipe realises he's never seen Kimi so relaxed or so at home. He watches Kimi smile for the cameras, and laugh as he gets pelted with snowballs like it's the best thing in the world, and Felipe decides that it fits, somehow.   
  
Him, he's not such a big fan. He'd take the sun and humidity and the press of gauzy heat across his bare skin any day. It's too cold here, way too fucking cold, and already it feels like there are sharp icicles stabbing up his nose and into the soft flesh of his brain. (Earlier, someone had even tried to shove a handful of snow down his jacket-- and he'd slipped and fallen in his pathetic attempts to wriggle away.) But Felipe's not a complainer, so he endures, finds a clearing where the cameras don't follow him, and sets about piling a large lump of snow together.  
  
Twenty minutes later, he's more or less done. He looks around and is happy to see that there are no cameras in sight, no cameras to capture his snow-induced misery and broadcast it to the world.  
  
"Hey, Iceman," Felipe calls.  
  
"Yeah?" comes the distant reply from a few yards away.  
  
"Come here."  
  
Kimi makes his way over to the clearing to see Felipe beaming at him from where he stands in the middle of two snowmen. Or rather, two lumps of snow with eyes and smiles etched on with a gloved finger.  
  
"Iceman," he says again, curling his toes inside his boots to keep his laughter from bubbling out. "I found your parents."  
  
Kimi kisses him and all Felipe can think about is Kimi's hands strangely warm through his gloves on his cheeks, cold lips against his, and he vaguely remembers scoffing, so much for the Iceman.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's easier to not talk about it, so they don't.  
  
They still smile at each other when they brush shoulders in the hallways of a hotel, still grin and say  _hello, how's things?_  when they end up in the garage at the same time. They act like nothing ever happened, like they're nothing more than two team mates, comrades under their red jumpsuits and blazing engines, two men simply thrown together partly by circumstance and also by the flourish of a signature on the bottom right corner of a piece of paper.  
  
It's easy for Kimi-- he's the Iceman, remember.  
  
Felipe's not so lucky. He's sorry he doesn't have a heart and a mindset made of ice or something like it. It's not as easy for him to smile at Kimi as it is for Kimi to smile at him. It's unfortunate and he's sorry, but it's not his fault that he was born with a real heart, a beating heart of warm muscle and a network of veins and arteries and capillaries-- a real fucking heart.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
After a while, Felipe stops smiling altogether.  
  
Kimi notices - he's not stupid; made of ice maybe, but not stupid - and asks him why. As a rule, Kimi hates confrontations, but this time he doesn't really have much choice, not unless he wants to go through an entire season with a sulking team mate.  
  
Beating around the bush doesn't quite suit Kimi either, so he gets straight to the point.  
  
"You are upset with me?" he says, more of a statement than it is a question.  
  
Felipe looks up at him, looks down again, and scowls at his plate of fried eggs and baked beans.  
  
"No."  
  
"Then you don't like me."  
  
"No."  
  
"I know it's because of what happened on the ski retreat," Kimi continues, undeterred, in his usual unwavering voice.  
  
"What  _happened_?" Felipe looks up now and holds his gaze. "You mean, what you did."  
  
"What I did," Kimi agrees.  
  
His cutlery clatters across his plate as Felipe throws them down and exhales sharply.  
  
"You are-- I cannot understand you." Felipe pushes his chair back noisily, gets up, and barges past Kimi.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Are you busy?"  
  
"No, why?"  
  
Felipe holds up two drawing pads and a couple of pencils.  
  
"Some magazine," he says helplessly. "They want us to draw each other."  
  
Kimi puts his book down and stares at Felipe. "What?"  
  
Felipe shrugs, takes a seat opposite Kimi.  
  
"Everybody must do it," he says, sliding the drawing pad and pencil over to Kimi. Then a wicked grin spreads across his face. "They are all doing it. Even Lewis and Fernando."  
  
"No shit," Kimi says, and reaches out for a pencil.  
  
Felipe shakes his head. "No. Now don't move. I must draw your funny face."  
  
And Felipe's studying his team mate again, studying the strong set of his jaw, the intensity in his pale eyes and ruddy cheeks.  
  
He's just about finishing shading in the last detail on Kimi's helmet when he realises that maybe it didn't matter whether or not he understood Kimi.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's a slow day today, they're done with their practice rounds and now the mechanics are tweaking a few things on their cars, so Kimi and Felipe sit in the air-conditioned comfort of a hotel cafe and play poker over cups of coffee and sweet croissants.  
  
Felipe takes a sip of coffee and makes a face.  
  
"This is bad coffee," he announces, setting it back down on the table with a loud clatter. "Don't drink it. When we go to Brazil, I will buy you the best coffee in the world."  
  
And Kimi smiles because it's always Brazil with Felipe.  
  
("I've seen Brazil before," he remembers insisting, more times than he can count, only to have Felipe shake his head emphatically.  
  
"No, no," says the patriotic little Brazilian. "You have not seen Brazil. I will take you, I will take you. After the race-- after the season, I will take you and you will see Brazil."  
  
There's not much Kimi can do when Felipe gets like this so he shrugs. "Okay," he'll surrender finally. "You can take me."  
  
And Felipe always smiles the biggest smile Kimi's ever seen in his life.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They've come to Brazil, finally. Felipe knows what he has to do. He knows, he knows what's going to happen-- he knows the same way he knows it's not right how his heart skips a beat whenever Kimi smiles his Iceman smile at him.  
  
They'll let him dominate for the practice laps, maybe even the qualifying rounds. But when it comes down to the real thing -- the only thing that matters-- Felipe knows what he has to do.  
  
It's not fair, it's sad and it's not what he wants; he wishes things could be different, but he's never been much of a complainer. So he endures.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The night before the race, he leaves a packet of the freshest, finest Brazilian coffee beans he can find by Kimi's hotel room door. He doesn't leave a note. Kimi will know.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Brazil is hot at this time of year; sweltering opressive heat that hangs overhead like a heavy sheet of stifling gauze. It's hot even in here, and under the table his fingers pick uncomfortably at the fabric of his pants plastered against his thighs. Next to him, Kimi is answering questions, rattling on almost as though he was trained to; and in the midst of a reply, he reaches over to pour himself another cup of sickly-sweet orange cordial.  
  
Felipe sits there, twitching uneasily and fiddling with his microphone, scratches patterns into the water condensation on the jug of cordial in front of him. He's starting to feel rather sick actually, and suddenly he really wants to get out of there. Across the table, he stares out at the sea of eyes and half-filled notepads, all the reporters hanging off Kimi's every word, scratching them down onto lined paper with worn-out ballpoint pens.  
  
And then it's Felipe's turn.  
  
He can't even breathe properly, much less form coherent sentences in his head. He stutters and stumbles over his words, can't seem to find the proper things to say.  
  
"Sure," he says, nonchalant in the way the defeated slope of his shoulders is not. "Sure it would be good to win. To win here, here in my country-- but I am still happy, no? Happy for the team, happy for Kimi. I'm just really happy I can help the team to win the championship."  
  
He feels a hand come to rest on his back, a tentative attempt at solace. It doesn't help though, not at all. All of a sudden, the back of his eyes begin to sear and Felipe grabs at the bridge of his nose. He flinches.  
  
Kimi pulls his hand back immediately, and like a pin-point accurate reflex action, something in Felipe's heart (his real fucking heart) crumbles.  


 

 

 

 

"What you did for the team today--"

"I didn't do it only for the team," Felipe mumbles, and in his pocket his nails dig deep into the flesh of his palms. He can't quite bring himself to look at Kimi, so he stares down at a stain a patch of oil has left on the ground.

He's not sure how Kimi had managed to find him, or even why he'd want to go all out to look for him in the first place. Felipe may not know him all that well, but he's pretty sure that Kimi Raikkonen, 2007 World Champion, doesn't suddenly get struck by the overwhelming desire to visit what should have been a deserted garage. Still, Kimi had found him leaning against the wall, tugging at the straps of his watch and staring desolately at nothing in particular.

There's a heartbeat of silence as Kimi blinks at him, uncomprehending. And when he smiles, it's faint but he puts his hand on Felipe's shoulder. 

"Thank you," he says softly. "I would do the same thing for you."

"There's no race in Finland," Felipe says, only half-joking, but now he lifts his gaze to meet Kimi's. They smile at each other and Felipe doesn't even pretend to be surprised when Kimi slides his hand down Felipe's arm until Felipe feels fingers wrap around his wrist, the light press of fingertips against his pulse.

_One, two,_  like Kimi's counting the way his heart beats.  _One, two, three, five._

 

 

 

 

 

Another thing (and it's not the last-- or so he hopes) that Felipe comes to learn about Kimi Raikkonen is this: he's not really an iceman.


End file.
